


Taxonomic Adjustments

by theothersusan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, possibly pre pre pre slash if you squint hard enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theothersusan/pseuds/theothersusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John refuses to fit neatly into one of Sherlock's mental boxes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taxonomic Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during Series 1, not long after Sherlock and John become flatmates.

Sherlock enjoys classifying things.  This has been true for as long as he can remember.  He enjoys sorting things into tidy categories in his mind, people included.  Not that classifying people has ever been particularly challenging, as he recognizes only two taxonomic groupings:  **me** and **everyone else**.  At tad simplistic, perhaps, but a serviceable system.  
  
Well, until he met John Watson, at any rate.  
  
John clearly isn't **me**.  Hardly surprising.  And not his fault, really--no one is.  
  
What's surprising is that John doesn't appear to be **everyone else** , either.  John’s very existence may necessitate the creation of an entirely new category, which will upset Sherlock's long-held worldview beyond repair.  He doesn't want to create a new category just for John, but he's been observing him for weeks now, and the evidence of his non- **everyone else** -ness is piling up.  
  
Take, for example, the note Sherlock is currently examining.  It's written in John's already-familiar hand, and it is taped to the refrigerator door:  
  
 _This is Just to Say:_  
  
 _I have quarantined_  
 _the fingers_  
 _that were in_  
 _the icebox_  
  
 _and which_  
 _you are probably_  
 _saving_  
 _for an experiment_  
  
 _Forgive me_  
 _they are decomposing_  
 _so smelly_  
 _and so unappetizing_  
  
 _JW_  
  
Sherlock stares at the note in consternation for several seconds before the possible significance of the first stanza sinks in, whereupon he throws open the refrigerator door with more force than strictly necessary.  
  
 _Quarantined?  What in blazes does he mean by quarantined?  If he's binned my fingers--_  
  
But no, the fingers are still there.  They're simply in a container--an opaque, airtight plastic tub that John has artfully rearranged the refrigerator's shelves to accommodate.  (Sherlock notes absently that it looks large enough to contain a head.)  Its lid bears a label written in bold black marking pen:  _Body Parts Go Here._  
  
On the one hand, this is proof that John is, on some level, bothered by the body parts in the refrigerator, though perhaps for more practical reasons (smelly, unappetizing) than might be expected of **everyone else**.  At any rate, Sherlock doesn't really understand the objection--it's not as if the fingers are going to eat John's leftover curry.  
  
On the other hand, though, this is clear evidence of a sense of humor at least as macabre as Sherlock's own, which is firmly on the **me** side of the dividing line.  
  
Furthermore, John apparently expected Sherlock to actually get the joke--which he does, obviously, in spite of the fact that the poetry of William Carlos Williams is no more useful than the structure of the solar system.  _Why haven’t I deleted that?_  
  
Sherlock is pretty sure this is not the **everyone else** response to decomposing fingers in the refrigerator.  That would be more along the lines of screaming, fleeing, and/or summoning the police.  This is something else entirely.  This is...well, thoughtful, he supposes.  And unexpected.  And oddly delightful.  
  
And yes, funny.  He reads the poem again, snorts, and fishes a pen out of his trouser pocket to scrawl across the bottom:  
  
 _What if I need to freeze some of them?_  
  
Belatedly, it occurs to him to open the freezer.  There is an identical plastic tub, identically labeled.  His frozen beaver entrails have been carefully transferred into it.  
  
Sherlock amends his note:  
  
 _ ~~What if I need to freeze some of them?~~ Never mind.  Good man._  
  
As he pockets the pen again, it strikes him that perhaps what's called for isn't a third category at all, but a minor adjustment to his existing taxonomy:  **us** and **everyone else**.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The poem that inspired John's note is "This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams. The original has absolutely nothing to do with body parts, decomposing or otherwise.


End file.
